


Touch

by Koevch



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Rape, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koevch/pseuds/Koevch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt on st_tos_kink: Just rewatched Wrath of Khan for the first time in years, and found I was fairly immune to the thing with Spock, just because it’s referred to so often I knew the whole scene line for line. On the other hand, I’d forgotten about the part where Chekov is pretty much tortured at length and shoved into a box. Thus, Pavel needs some cuddles. Doesn’t have to be romantic - his BFF Uhura would do cuddles just as well as Sulu. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not associated in any way with the Star Trek franchise. This is a fan work written for fun, not profit, and all characters are copyrighted to the franchise.

They lie in silence for an eternity, the grief and terror and guilt too much to possibly articulate. Chekov wonders dimly if Sulu would like to cry, and is not doing so for his sake. He certainly hopes not. He already feels like a _child_ , not a forty-year-old man, but Sulu is warm and safe and familiar, and Chekov, with his forehead pressed into his friend’s chest, finds a shred of comfort in his soft, steady heartbeat, so much slower and more regular than his own.

He tries not to think of Spock, and the terror of the box and the helplessness from the moment that Khan found them. His entire body has been explored like a cadaver, and he is filthy, angry, pained. And he almost murdered the Admiral. He almost murdered Sulu and Spock and everybody else—Spock—

Hot tears well in his eyes. His throat is tight and aching and trying to choke back a sob does nothing to make it any better. Sulu makes a soft sound in his throat and shifts slightly, then tightens his hold and weaves his fingers into the hair on the back of Pavel’s head.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “You're safe.”

“I do not feel safe.” He says hollowly.

“It is understandable. But that will come with time.” Chekov shakes his head back and forth, his hands fisted in Sulu’s shirt so tightly that his fingers ache.

“No,” he says, “No.”

“Yes. You’ll be alright.”

“I killed people! I told zem things and zey used zem to murder all of those people! I almost killed the Edmiral, Mr. Sulu! I em murderer! Zey got ze ship from me and zey used it to kill ze cadets and zen _Spock_ hed to _die_ —” His words, desperate and frantic, are a jumbled mess that moves back and forth between octaves, and at some points Sulu cannot tell if he is speaking English or Russian. He carefully sits up and holds Chekov’s shoulders with both hands to see his face. Pavel's lip trembles uncontrollably and his brown eyes are wet and raw with pain as they flicker over Sulu’s in the half-light.

“Pavel, you didn’t kill anybody. You had no control over your actions until the very end, and once you did, you acted quite admirably, from what I have been told.” Sulu smiles softly, but the words are rejected with another shake of the head.

Chekov lapses into another silence as Sulu takes him back into his arms, which feels safer, and is more reassuring than empty words can ever be. He’s too emotionally exhausted to even think a response. He just wants to be held, to be close to another living, breathing human body, to touch things and know for a fact that he is somehow still alive. He rests his forehead on Hikaru’s shoulder and gradually allows him to support most of his weight; eventually, Sulu reclines, moving a pillow to support his back as he props his head up on the headboard.

In the quiet, Chekov’s mind replays the feeling of the worm’s pincers brushing the velus hairs on the side of his face over and over, the electrical surges of terror, Khan’s laughter over his panicked cries, the excruciating pain as it ripped itself off of his brain. He can still feel the brush of the trigger of his phaser against the pad of his finger and the researchers’ horrid shrieks echo endlessly in the confines of his skull. He’s crying into Sulu’s shirt again.

“It’s alright. You’re okay. I’ve arranged for the psychologist to come see you tomorrow morning,” Hikaru murmurs. “Eleven hundred.”

Pavel struggles to catch enough breath to respond. “I ken’t do zat. Vho vill cower me?”

“That’s already been arranged. One of the cadets will cover for you.”

“One of ze cadets—”

“She is a very capable young woman, according to—…”

Chekov sniffs. “Eccording to Mr. Spock.”

“Yes.” Sulu’s chest rises beneath his own with a long inhalation, and he holds it for a few moments before he speaks. “I miss him too.”

“Is not ze same. Is never going to be ze same.”

He sighs. “You are right, it won’t be. But even if he were still here, it wouldn’t be the same, even a minute from now. My father always used to tell me, life is dynamic. You know that he wouldn’t want you to grieve.”

“He newer let anyone take ker of him enyvay.”

“That’s not necessarily true. He may not have let anyone _see_ him taken care of, but…”

“Is ze same thing,” he says lamely. He tries to focus on Sulu’s muffled pulse again—his own is in sharp contrast, unsteady and rapid, because he is _afraid_ regardless of how safe the Enterprise may be. _Am I going to spend the rest of my life like this?_

He shifts after a moment, not in complete unawareness of the abstract nature of their situation. He’s only _embraced_ Sulu once or twice in the twentysomething years they’ve served together, and so to share a bed and _cuddle_ —because _that is what this is_ , cuddling—is a drastic leap from where they had been.

Maybe Sulu’s been thinking the same thing, because he asks, now, “Would you like me to stay tonight? I don’t mind resting on the floor.”

He can’t imagine Sulu _not staying_ , and even a few meters away from him seem to push what his mind has decided is safe. He is helpless, utterly helpless. Khan has robbed him of his autonomy permanently, broken something inside of him. Chekov blinks back another wave of tears, doesn’t want to ask; when he does, his voice is hoarse and quiet and alien.

"You don’t hev to sleep on ze floor."

"Alright." Sulu is silent for a moment, arranging his words. "I think that the best thing for you right now is sleep, Pavel, I do." He shifts and takes a small strip from his pocket, holding it between two fingertips. Chekov has to squint and lean away from it to discern what it is. "I brought you a sedative if you think it might help you fall asleep. It should keep you from waking up in the night, too."

The idea makes him uneasy and Sulu seems to pick up on that. “I’ll be here the whole time.”

"Thank you." He carefully unwraps it, feeling like he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter, and allows it to dissolve on his tongue. It tastes like black licorice, and he wonders briefly if that was specially requested as its effects kick in. Almost everyone else on the ship hates licorice... His pulse starts to slow as Sulu drapes the comforter over them, and as the adrenaline dissipates, he realizes just how tired he is (and probably has been for a few hours now). It doesn’t take away the pain or the fear, but it temporarily dilutes them with fatigue, and he is grateful.

"Thank you," he whispers as the bedside light flickers out.

"Certainly. Good night, Pavel," Sulu says, stroking the back of his hand. He turns his head and touches the tip of his nose to Chekov’s forehead for a few moments, his breath soft and warm in the darkness. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Mr. Sulu."


End file.
